Tangle

What is it you see
past the window, dangling in the sun?
Nothing–that web
is spun too fine
to merit substance
20 feet and 20 degrees away—
but what then, feeds our eyes?

We’re laughing, resting easy that
it’s out there and I’m building an argument
with a far-flung leap
across the abyss.
We see nothing.
we see no thing,
we take what we’re given
so amiable that way.

We see nothing but the bounce of light,
drinking in the leftovers
after the leaves, the morning heat
a million mirrors, to a million more.
Denounce the sun and what?
Your hand still rests at the end of your arm.
My eyes still search that bend I understand
as your smile.
What is gone, but the taste of light?

A silly game, but keep it going a minute–
all we see, light, or not light,
training us in simplicity.
Play it harder then, we’ve left the little web
and the laughing—
touch me, touch me, without a hand.
Is today a day for loving the weaving words,
or are you tired, critically tired, of clearing my mess